We went to meet the transport that brought you from Tennessee with our little one still in a carseat bucket and our two preschoolers toddling ahead. Somehow, even after just walking you a few steps–which is about all we could manage at the time–we knew you were meant to be our family dog.
You had big floppy ears and an unknown past. We were told you were basically potty trained and knew how to sit on command. We signed the paperwork and you jumped eagerly into our minivan.
You let “your babies” walk you around the block when they weighed even less than you
You went on walks with me when I was bleary-eyed, pushing the stroller. You waited outside the store while I ran in for a pack of diapers. You let “your babies” as I came to call the three kids who grew up under your watchful eye, walk you around the block when they weighed even less than you. You took dog treats gently from their tiny hands.
You dutifully cleaned up the food they dropped on the ground–at first by accident, eventually very much on purpose. You visited at bath time, sticking your nose into the water playfully, listened to books read out loud at bedtime, and were the last to leave their room at night.
Once we spent more time away out in the world, you lazed in our beds
Once they went to school, you walked with me in the morning to drop them off, and you waited with me outside the school door for them to rush out and fall to their knees so they could drape themselves around your furry neck. You got loose on vacation and we put bacon on the lawn, your favorite treat, to catch you. We still laugh about that one.
One time you ran away at the park and while I was looking for you I got a notification on my phone–it was you on the doorbell camera at the front door, waiting to be let in. You stole bagels and turkey sandwiches off the counter when we weren’t looking. You lazed on the couch and in our beds during the days once we spent more time away out in the world.
When our children struggled you helped us get through it
When your oldest baby went through a terrible period of depression and couldn’t sleep, you lay down next to him until he could finally nod off. I told you at the time but I hope you know how much that meant to me. You were there the night I found the texts. You looked at me as if the pain was yours too. When he yelled at me, you came to stand close, hoping you could protect me.
When we broke the news of the divorce, your youngest baby had one burning question: who would keep you? The answer to that was easy–me.
You were there for me, in those days of stark loneliness, when I mourned my 20-year marriage and learned to sleep alone. You licked the tears from my face and stayed in bed all day with me. You went for long runs with me when I so desperately needed to be physically tired to ease the emotional pain.
I told the dog that we had both been replaced
When I ran into my ex with his new girlfriend and their new dog, I came home to tell you first. I crouched down and looked you into your hound dog eyes.
“We’ve both been replaced,” I said. But there was no replacing you. Ever.
You saw me rebuild my life, one small brick at a time. You eyed the new man in my life closely, making sure he was honest and good before accepting him into your heart. Your babies grew up. You watched them play sports and have sleepovers and you lay down on their rug while they did their homework. You celebrated birthdays and graduations. Finally, you stood at the door and watched as we packed the car to drive your babies away to college.
Your black coat has lost its luster
Your black coat doesn’t have the same glossy luster anymore. You are thin and your muzzle is covered in white. You have a few lumps and bumps. We pass the elementary school on evening walks together and both wonder how our babies grew up so fast.
There will be no replacing you when you leave us for good in a year or two. There will be other dogs to come but none will be you, our family dog. When I walk you slowly around the block and we run into a mom or dad with young kids, they ask if they can pet you.
“Of course,” I tell them. “She raised three little ones of her own.”
They probably think I mean puppies, not humans. But you raised my kids as much as I did. They put their tiny hands on you and you stand perfectly still to let them. I ask them if they have a dog of their own.
If they do, I tell them, “You’re lucky. There’s nothing better than a family dog.”
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